


louder than logic

by JaguarCello



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Stoned Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2013-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-08 21:38:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaguarCello/pseuds/JaguarCello
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>lazy kisses mainly</p>
            </blockquote>





	louder than logic

The film reel – and “Who even watches  _reels_ , this isn’t some American indie film”, Grantaire had complained – was buzzing slightly, looping on a flickering screen that was hazy through the funk of smoke that filled the room. The curtains had been drawn hours earlier, when the last threads of sunlight had slipped behind the high-rise car park that Jehan lived near, and they were both half-slumped on the floor, heads tilted back onto the sofa.

“The fact that you came back from Montparnasse with a  _lizard_  says a lot about what we just smoked,” Grantaire said, or tried to say, the words running into one another like water over pebbles, and he reached up to push his hair (grown too long, as dark as the faint bruise on his cheekbone) out of his eyes.

 Jehan’s face split into a slow, sleepy smile. “We didn’t even smoke that much, but – well, remember that time we hotboxed a greenhouse? It’s like that. The walls are very near,” and he leaned forwards to press a lazy kiss to the corner of Grantaire’s mouth. He tasted of ash, and Grantaire kissed back, because Jehan tended to bestow kisses like Parliament dreamed up Acts – lazily, carelessly, with little thought to the consequences , and that made him think of Enjolras, so he bit Jehan’s lip hungrily.

 And they’d kissed before – how could they not, when Jehan was as free with kisses and smiles as he was? – but never like this; Jehan had never cupped Grantaire’s jawline, or tangled his fingers in his hair, and Grantaire had never been pushed (gently, but insistently) onto the sofa with Jehan pinning him down with his body, and he’d never found Jehan attractive – in a “nice to look at” way, he thought of him much the same way as his parents had felt about china ornaments – because he’d given his heart to Enjolras on a silver platter, and Enjolras – cruel, beautiful Enjolras – had crushed it.

 “You know,” Grantaire mumbled to the smooth skin of Jehan’s throat. “I feel like Prometheus,” and Jehan had stopped biting at his nipple to listen. “You know, how he gave fire to the humans, and the gods tied him to a rock and had an eagle rip his liver out every night?” and Jehan nodded, because Grantaire was unsubtle – more of a whirlwind than a breeze, and he’d wondered before whether the sheer strength of Grantaire’s adoration could be measured in gale force – but his mind was sliding into a maze of metaphor, and so he just nodded and licked a slow line down Grantaire’s chest.

“I was going to say that Enjolras was the eagle – we all know how he feels about freedom,” and his ugly laughter sounded warped, like listening to a plughole concert, and he pressed a thumb into the curve of Jehan’s hip. “But then – he’s the god, isn’t he? Looking down on me,” and Jehan caught his thumb from where it was meandering upwards, and looked at Grantaire.

“There is a condition, you know,” he told Grantaire, green eyes fixed on green. If Combeferre were here, he’d tell us about alleles, he wanted to say, but instead he went on. “You can’t say his name. And I can’t say Montparnasse, because it’s a stupid crush and he’s only just got out of prison and so he’s probably sore and we couldn’t fuck, and –“ and he was half-crying now, but his hands were still clenched in Grantaire’s hair, and Grantaire kissed clumsily over the tears that budded in his eyes, and Jehan half-wailed into his chest that “I wish I could hate him. I wish I could, but then it’s so hard to hate beautiful things. Even poisonous things, and he’s certainly that, and I don’t even  _like_  him but imagine the sex – “ but panic bubbled up through his throat until Grantaire pressed a grimy finger, blackened with smoke, to his lips. “You can cry later. Use your words, I know you know what to say to him,” and the  _optimism_  of that made Jehan laugh shakily.

 “You’ve changed your tune,” and he sat up again, smile threatening to burst into a grin, but tears still slid sullenly from his eyes, and the corners of his mouth (all bitten and kissed, red and swollen) were half-turned down. He reached for the spliff, half-lost in the blanket fort which – ten hours and half a bowl earlier – had seemed like a good idea, and this time, he held the smoke in his lungs until he could see stars, until he could imagine the cancer cells blooming, and the curl of the smoke through his alveoli.

 “You need to get this out of your system,” Grantaire told him, and Jehan nodded briskly, blowing a practised smoke ring into his mouth; he half-spluttered, but then sat up to meet his lips, and this time they kissed with clashing teeth and too much tongue, and when Jehan touched him, Grantaire closed his eyes and turned his neck to the side, and he’s ugly usually – hair greasy, nose a little too large for his face and beaten in by one too many bar brawls, but the noises he makes are louder than logic, and Jehan’s blood sung.

**Author's Note:**

> god bless yosb


End file.
